


Don't let me go

by LeighJ



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort Sex, Desire, Dreams and Nightmares, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Grinding, Hot, Hot Sex, Kissing, Minor Violence, Neck Kissing, Nightmares, Nudity, Passion, Passionate Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Riding, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Sex, Vaginal Sex, Violence, Woman on Top, frenzied fucking, kissin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 17:35:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15418083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeighJ/pseuds/LeighJ
Summary: A bad dream sends Daeneryes reeling into Jon's arms. Is her subconcious trying to tell her something?





	Don't let me go

**Author's Note:**

> If there are any here: sorry Bethyl fans, I know I've been neglecting you. I promise I've got things cooking for you, they're just taking a long time to come out. So sorry for your wait.
> 
> Jonerys fans, I hope you love! And please let me know what you think. 
> 
> If I have any Delena fans in the house, I have a one shot for those two coming.
> 
> Thank you as always to my beta and favourite chick wallflow3r for loving everything I write ❤❤

Fire and blood.

Death and screams.

Chaos.

There is so much to see below as Viserion swoops down low with her astride him and screams, heat burning into the clouds and breaking them. So much to see and yet she cannot see because she is blind. Blind because she cannot find his nest of dark hair or recognise the thickness of his shoulders in the surging crowd of bodies. Everything that moves is darkness, the bitter edge of the North like a film over the world. White, white snow and shapes like splashes of ink across it, man and horse. Glints of silver flare in her vision, blades meeting in a deadly kiss. White dots against the fresh snow, only told apart by the smudge of black on them.

The skin of the wights is snow that's been trodden in too much, smashed and grinded to a pulp by boots covered in ash and soot. When her sons scream, they look up and there is only blue, hard glints of ice, blue, blue, blue. Her children scream again and it is so loud, so close it is almost as if she is beside all three of them. She is not beside them, she is _astride_ them, she realises. She rides a body she recognises as Viserion's, her thighs familiar with the exact press of his scales. His head is in front of her too but his neck supports not one but three thick necks, like branches of a tree.

Drogon is to her left, Viserion her centre and to her right Rhaegal’s mouth splits wide and breathes fire, igniting the sky once more. _The Dragon has three heads but I am only one rider_. She bends to Viserion’s neck and whispers, “find him.”

In unison her son’s screech and then she clings to the scales beneath her fingers as they dip further down. Her eyes search for him desperately, her heart beating a wild drum inside her chest, her throat, behind her eyelids. Terror steals her breath, not her descent but the harder she looks the more she cannot see. Her hands shake as she presses against Viserion's shoulders to urge him on. All around battle ensues. The grunts of men fighting to the death, the ring of blades and the vibrations of their clashing running through the core of the earth. Time is suspended and never ending, breathless in its intensity.

Water clouds her eyes and she straightens her spine in defiance. She is a _Queen_ , not a simpering fool and with her focus there he is, in crystal sharp clarity. He’s battling with a monster of the dead, mud and blood streaking his face and hands, arms trembling as his blade rings with the creatures.

“Jon!” She screams.

His head jerks up and where he was lagging before he hits back with new enthusiasm. A smile steals over her face and her heart quickens in anticipation.

They fly closer and she reaches out her hand, stretching her fingers until they ache. "Come on!”

He takes her hand with his left and then swings his right arm around, slashing into a man who swings his axe around his head. Jon’s sword cuts him from ear to ear and the man falls, his axe with him. It strikes her in that moment that she does not understand what is happening, does not understand who they are fighting. There are the undead and the Others, but there are men too, men who have faces she sees through a foggy veil. Is she dreaming? But then Jon squeezes her hand and looks up at her with such terror that she can not seem to care if this is real or not. She _has_ to take him to safety.

"Don't let go!” He shouts as they begin to rise back into the air.

“I would ne- _Jon_!”

The mysterious man appears from almost no where, swinging down wildly and when Jon swings out it is too late, too slow. His blade slips and falls, his blood flowing into the snow and freezing instantly. He looks up at her and all she can do is stare in frozen horror as the blood seeps through the slice in his neck, his hand reaching as if to stem the flow.

“Jon,” She moans brokenly.

"Don't... don't let...” He coughs and a bright bubble of blood bursts past his lips, staining them.

The man behind him grins and when he tips his face up to Daenerys, he takes his sword coated in Jon’s blood and swings it violently into Jon’s neck, taking it clean off before he can finish saying, “go.”

Daenerys screams herself awake and he is right beside her, seizing her shoulders and repeating himself over and over again but she cannot hear his words or his voice. In her dream she was blind and in life she is deaf and in both she is terrified.

“Dany,” he repeats patiently, petting her sweat dampened hair, “it was just a dream.”

She strangles back a sob as she looks up at him under her wet, trembling eyelashes. Their eyes connect for a moment before she throws herself at him, pushing him on his back as she kisses him, her mouth desperate and angry and so terribly afraid. Her hands touch him greedily, massaging and squeezing, digging her nails in to make sure he is alive.

“Daenerys,” he groans against her mouth, her tongue sweeping in behind the words. “Stop. Talk with me. Tell me w-"

She seizes his hands desperately, so big and white from the North’s harsh ice and snow. She places them against her darker skin, warmed by foreign suns across the narrow sea, cutting him off by rocking into him. “Don't let me go."

The resistance melts from him and he grips her tight, pinching her flesh with his eagerness, his teeth clashing against hers as they tear at each other. The sheet bunches around her waist and his legs, leaving nothing between their soft, bare bellies. The crisp hairs on his legs maddening against hers. She rocks against his hardness, straining and weeping against her belly and he groans deeply, hands finding her ass and squeezing so tight she groans through her teeth. His mouth pulls from hers with a wild gasp before his lips find her throat, eager and passionate and insane all in one touch.

Jon’s teeth scrape her collar bones one after the other and she shudders as she reaches down and trails her fingers through the dark thatch of curls between his legs. He chokes a little in his throat and she laughs against his lips in a sudden burst of mirth that bubbles in her chest. He laughs back at her, not gentling his hungry mouth against her throat or his urgent, desperate hands and that makes everything so much wilder. Her belly burns and wetness spills against Jon’s knuckles when he drags them between her legs. He growls against her throat and bites, pressing his knuckles in soft and firm.

Daenerys keens, throwing her head back with a cry as her climax tears her into bloody ribbons. Jon bites deeper and her eyes roll in her skull, his hands on her hips now as he lifts her and brings her down swiftly on his hard length. Her inner muscles part and stretch, welcoming him back and he moans like he is relieved to be home. The fog of her tumble into heaven clears just a little and she rearranges her thighs by his hips, rocking and squirming to find her placement in his lap, impaled on his cock. His hands scrabble up her hips and back, clawing into her shoulders and she burns under his assault, bowing into his chest.

She cannot keep her hands off him or her lips and as he lies prone and vulnerable, gripping at her skin, she trails her lips everywhere she can. Her hips continue to lift and drop in a frenzied rhythm of burning need as her lips trail his throat and chest, tongue flicking at his nipple before she bites down and _tugs_. He hisses and moans her name, his left hand staying on her shoulder, spanning nearly both of them as his right tangles in her hair. He does not pull or tug but simply holds like he is finding his balance. He has no control over her hips, no purchase to force them and she rides fast and hard with none of his influence.

The sounds spilling from him are undoing her vein by vein, her heart thundering but her eyes wide open as she strokes her hands over his thick arms and firm stomach. His eyes fly open when she leans forward and rocks down faster than she can take her next breath. He does not find his, the sound strangling in his throat as he goes rock still and then all at once he is a blur of motion, seizing upright as he grips her lower back with one hand and the back of her neck with the other. Control slams over her like shackles and her inner walls clamp with the incredulity that she _wants_ it.

Their foreheads clash together, sweaty and hot, his hips surging into hers, squeezing her stomach tighter and sending her world into ruins. The hand on her neck squeezes tighter, grinding their foreheads together as he lets loose with reckless abandon.

“Please,” he begs in a hoarse, broken whisper that ignites every fibre of her being. “Please.”

He says it again and again, breathing it over her lips as he slams into her and she trembles in his arms but she does not know what he wants and she can not fathom words to ask. Then he leans forward and kisses her, hard and deep and fierce, bites down on her lip and growls it again: _please_.

"What?” She finally gasps. “Tell me. Gods just tell me!”

"Don't let go,” he groans and then she is nothing.

Nothing but burning hot light that ignites her whole body and burns it to ashes. She screams, her head rocking into his shoulder as she clenches and shakes. Jon’s fingers bruise her where he grips at her hips but the ache is worth the deep ropes of his seed spilling inside her, worth the agonised curse that is mostly her name.

They collapse against each other, him sliding out of her with a rush of wetness that makes her blush. Her head falls against his chest, her cheek against the exact place of his heart, which booms and throbs into the very core of her.

"Dany, I-"

"Tell me after,” she interrupts desperately. “After wars are won and enemies vanquished, after I do the things I have crossed the narrow sea for. Tell me after, Jon. Just don't let go.”

He squeezes her tight, his slick body sliding against hers. “I do not intend to ever let you go, Daenerys, not ever.”

 


End file.
